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THJS 



YOUNG IRISHMAN. 



FROM 



"A PASTOR'S SKETCHES; 



OR, 



CONVERSATIONS WITH ANXIOUS INQUIRERS RESPECTING 
THE WAY OP SALVATION." 



I. S. SPENCEE, D.D. 



NEW YORK: 

PUBLISHED BY M. W. DODD, 

No. 506 BKOADWAY. 



■ 5*72 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year I8b0, 

BV ICflABOD S. SPENCER, 

Tii the Clerk's Office for the Southern District of New York. 



/ 



5^£ jt^if$3 



NOTE. 

Frequent and earnest importunities from those who 
are ever watchful to employ the most effective instru- 
mentalities for benefiting others, have induced the 
issue by itself, of the accompanying Sketch, which is 
the first one of a collection making up a volume. 
This volume, "A Pastor's Sketches, &c.," has obtained, 
probably, a wider celebrity and more extensive circu- 
lation than any other work of the present century, on 
experimental religion. It is believed that few books 
beside the Bible, have, in the same time, accomplished 
more good. An idea of the character of the volume 
can be formed from the Sketch here given, the table 
of contents of the volume, and the following extract 
from the author's preface. The Author says, — " This 
is a book of truth. These Sketches are taken from 
real life. They are facts, not fancies. They are the 
experiences of some whom the author has known in 
the course of his ministry. He has not given an item 
of coloring. The only thing about them from which 
any erroneous impression can possibly arise, is to 
be found in the fact, that they are only sketches, not 
containing all that could be given in respect to the 
individual here mentioned. But they are believed to 
contain a fair and sufficiently full representation of 



vi NOTE. 

each case." Though the sketch here given is some- 
what more lengthy than any in the volume, it has by 
no means attracted more attention, or excited more 
admiration than many others. The unusual interest 
awakened by this volume and the numerous testi- 
monials of its usefulness received from many parts of 
this country and Europe, led to the publication of 
another of the same character. 

Though entirely independent of each other, they 
are fit companions, and so appear in their style of 
publication. 

Since the death of the lamented author, a sketch 
of his life has been published as an accompaniment 
to a selection from his sermons, the whole embraced 
in two volumes. The sermons are strongly marked 
by the same peculiarities which have made the 
sketches and their author so eminently distinguished 
throughout the religious world. 

If the sanguine expectations entertained by many 
of the good that will be secured by the publication 
of " The Young Irishman M in a separate form, shall 
in any considerable degree be realized, a reluctant 
assent to the arrangement will be abundantly re- 
warded. 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN 



On a very hot day in July, a boy called at my 
house with a gentleman's card, saying that a lady 
had sent him to request me to visit a young man, 
who was sick. Both the lady and the young man 
were strangers to me. I had never heard of 
either of them. They resided more than threo 
miles from me, in another city ; and as I under- 
stood, the lady was an attendant upon the min- 
istry of another clergyman who was absent from 
home. I could not learn from the boy, why she 
should have sent for me. I was very much occu- 
pied, the day was intensely hot, the place was 
distant, many other clergymen were more conve- 
nient to it ; and I felt disposed, for these reasons, 
to excuse myself from going. As I was consid- 
ering the matter, the boy, as if reading my 
thoughts, spoke out earnestly, " She said you 
must come." 

I went, though I felt it to be a hardship, 
l 



Z THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

Finding the streot and the number of the house, 
by the card which was sent to me ; I rang the 
bell, and inquired for the young man, whose name 
was on the card. I was shown to his room. Ho 
was seated in an easy chair, with a book in his 
hand, and appeared somewhat pale and feeble, but 
not very sick. He rose to receive me. I told 
him w T ho I was, and that the boy who brought 
me his card, said he was sick, and would be glad 
to see me. He made no reply, except to offer me 
his hand and ask me to be seated. We had some 
general conversation, in which he took the lead. 
But he said nothing about his sending for me. 
Aside from his paleness and an occasional cough, 
I saw nothing in him to indicate the presence of 
any disease. He told me something of his history. 
He was a young Irishman about twenty-six years 
of age, was educated in one of the European 
Colleges, had studied law in Ireland, and design- 
ing to enter the legal profession in this country, 
had been engaged in its studies here about two 
years. He was a man of dignified appearance, 
of very handsome address, fluent in conversation, 
perfectly easy in his manners, and evidently of 
a vivid mind. He had seen much of the world, 
and told me he was fond of society. But for the 
last six months, since his health began to decline, 
he had been very much secluded, according to 
the advice of his physician. Said he, " I have 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 15 

been obliged to exchange the society of living 
men for the society of dead men, and was just 
amusing myself with reading Tacitus' De M'U'ibus 
Germanomm, when you came in." He mani- 
fested no disposition to advert to the subject of 
my visit. On the contrary, he seemed to avoid 
it. He so often changed the subject of conversa- 
tion, when I attempted to introduce it, that I was 
compelled to ask him plainly, if he desired to 
see me for any particular reason. He was silent 
for a moment, apparently lost in thought, and then 
replied : — 

" It would certainly seem very impolite in me, 
to say I did not wish to see you, since you have 
taken pains to come so far through the dust and 
heat ; -but I think it would be really impolite in 
me, not to tell you exactly the truth. I have an 
old aunt, who is a very religious woman ; and 
she has been urging me to send for you, almost 
ever since I have been secluded here. She thinks 
T am not to live long, and has talked to me often 
on the subject of religion. But as she and I could 
not think alike, she insisted that I ought to con- 
verse with some minister of the gospel, and finally 
became so urgent, that I reluctantly consented. 
But you will allow me to say, that I should have 
had no reluctance at all, at all, if I had supposed 
she was going to lead me to form so agreeable 
an acquaintance." 



4 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

" I am happy to know you," said I, " and 
am glad it was in my power to obey your 
call." 

" It was she that called" said he. " When 
I consented to see a clergyman, I left the se- 
lection and all the preliminaries entirely to her, 
and she selected yourself. I told her the se- 
lection lay in her line, as she was religious 
and I was not ; and that I should judge of 
religion, very much by the specimen of a min- 
ister she sent to me." 

I answered, " I must take care, then, how 
I demean myself, if you are going to rest 
your opinion of religion on that ground. And 
I suppose, in equity, you will allow me to 
judge of the science of Law in the same man- 
ner." 

" Ah !" said he, " I shall be obliged to fling 
in a demurrer on that point. I should be sor- 
ry to have you form your opinion of the law, 
by such a specimen of the legal profession as 
myself." 

" Your demurrer certainly cannot avail anything 
in your favor," said I. "If it can come in at all, 
it will be easy to turn it against you. For, since 
religion is a much higher matter than law, it is 
not to be demanded, that a man should be as good 
a representative of i fc, as a man should be of law ; 
and if you demur at my forming an opinion of 



THE Y O i; N 6 1 ill S H M A X. O 

law by the impression I have about one of its dis- 
ciples, much more, may I demur at your forming 
an opinion of religion on that ground." 

" Well, indeed," said he, " I cannot respond' 
to that. You have floored me, the first onset. 
But are you not a lawyer ? Your pleading 
indicates as much." 

" Not at all. I am only a very ordinary 
minister. — But since your aunt has done mo 
the honor to send for me, I should be happy to 
form her acquaintance. Does she reside here ?" 

" No. She lives a little distance off. I must 
tell you, she is very retiring, and lives very 
much secluded, though she spends much of her 
time with me ; and I doubt whether she will 
allow you to see her at all. She is not so 
young as she used to be. She has been a 
beautiful woman — an elegant woman ; and I 
tell her, that her pride keeps her away from 
society now, because she is not so handsome as 
she was once. But she seems to think that idea 
a reflection upon her religion ; and wonders that 
I can think of such a thing, and cannot have 
sense and sobriety enough to rise above such tri- 
fling thoughts." 

" Wherein do she and you differ on the sub- 
ject of religion ?" 

" Really, sir, I can scarcely answer that ques* 
tion We never differ, only in a friendly way. 



6 THE Y.O J.N G IRISHMAN. 

But, though she is a woman of very fine mind, 
in my opinion, yet her notions are too rigid foi 
me." 

" Perhaps she has examined the subject of 
religion more than you have." 

"I have no douBt," said he, " that she has 
spent more time over it. But my mind is not 
so formed as to take things upon trust. 1 want 
knowledge. I am not prepared to yield to as- 
sumption and dogmatism." 

" I am very glad to hear you say that," 
said I : " but perhaps you and I should not 
agree, in respect to your aunt's yielding to as- 
sumption and dogmatism. We are not accus- 
tomed to do that in religi n. I venture to af- 
firm, that your aunt is not guilty of it. And I 
do this, because / know, that we who espouse the 
cause of religion are not credulous, assuming, or 
dogmatic ; and on the contrary, the rejecters of 
religion are themselves the most credulous, assum- 
ing, and dogmatic people amongst us." 

" Well, indeed," said he, " you have fairly flung 
down the gauntlet to me." 

" Not at all. You flung it down at the name 
of your aunt ; and I, as her champion, take it 
up. I am prepared for the contest, the very 
moment you will name any definite matter of 
disagreement betwixt yourself and her." 

T must give you the credit for no small 



a 



THE VOUNG IRISHM A X. 7 

gallantry, " said he. " Your chivalry is of high 
bearing indeed, if you will so readily espouse the 
part of a lady entirely a stranger to you, and are 
prepared to defend her opinions, when you do not 
even know them." 

" I risk nothing, however," said I. " And I am 
prepared to contest the point you named, or any 
other point. You mentioned her taking things 
upon trust — her yielding to dogmatism and as- 
sumption." 

" Yes, I did. But I did not mean her in par- 
ticular. I mean religionists in general." 

" So I supposed. And I now ask you what it 
is, that we take upon trust, or assume, or wherein 
we dogmatize, any more than you lawyers dog 
matizc." 

u Well, to tell you the truth, I had reference to 
what my aunt is constantly saying about Grod. 
She seems to me to assume his existence, and 
character, and government over us. I tell her, 
that I ivant knowledge" 

" Very well," said I ; " that is a definite point. 
Let us get it fixed clearly in mind, and then 
bring it before the bar of our reason. The ques- 
tion is this : — Is the existence, is the character, is 
the government of Grod knoivn to us ? are these 
things matters of knoivledge ? I affirm, (in your 
aunt's behalf,) they are. You deny it." 

" Right," said he. " That is the question, 



HIE YOING IltlSH M A N. 

And as you are the plaintiff, you must open the 
case. Yours is the affirmative. Bring on your 
witnesses. I have only to deny, and to show that 
your proofs are insufficient." 

" Very well," said I. "We are agreed so far. 

1 commence the argument. — The matter before us 
regards knowledge. — I have, therefore, a prelim- 
inary question to settle first ; and I think it may 
l)e settled amicably betwixt us, without any de- 
bate. I now put the question to you — What is 
knoivledge ?" 

"You have taken me by surprise," said he, 
(a little confused, and hesitating.) 

" Certainly," said I, " the question is a fair one ; 
and it belongs to you to answer it. It is you who 
complain of your aunt, that she has not knowledge, 
uii a particular subject, to which she urges you to 
attend. We are to examine the question; and 
therefore, we ought to know what we are talking 
about, so as to understand one another. You say, 
you ' want knowledge ;' and I ask, what do you 
mean by knowledge ? I only give you a fair op- 
portunity to explain your own word." 

"Why, sir," said he, (with a forced smile,) " I 
venture to say, that you and I employ that very 
common word, in the same sense." 

" I beg pardon," said I. " In our profession we 
do not allow any assumptions : we take nothing 
upon trust : we never dogmatize" 



THE YOU NO IRISHMAN. 9 

He laughed quite heartily at this ; and replied, 
4 1 believe I have been away from court too long. 
My wit is not keen enough for this contest just 
now You have floored me again." 

u Oh," said I, "your wit is not at fault, but 
your assumption, your taking things upon trust, 
your dogmatism." 

" Well," said he, u since I own up on this point, 
you will do me the favor to answer the question 
yourself. I will assent to the answer, if I can 
without injuring my cause." 

" Most willingly," said I. " But this is a se- 
rious and momentous subject. It is the most mo- 
mentous of anything on this side of death. Let us 
then deal with it, in a careful and candid manner." 

" I will," said he, " most certainly." 

Said I, " Knowledge is founded on certainty. 
Something must be certain, or it cannot be 
known. Knowledge is the cognizance, which the 
mind has of realities, of facts, of some certainty or 
truth. It exists in the mind. The realities may 
exist outside of the mind, or inside of it. But 
they exist first ; and when the mind makes an 
ascertainment of them, it gains knowledge. That 
ascertainment is made, by what we call proofs or 
evidences. And these evidences will vary, as the 
subjects of knowledge or the certainties vary. 
There is one sort of proofs for mathematical 
knowledge, and another sort for legal knowledge, 



10 THE YOU IS' G IRISHMAN. 

and another for historic knowledge ; but each is 
good in its place, and sufficient. You would not 
expect me to prove a truth in morals or history, 
by mathematical demonstration ; — or a truth about 
the soul, by the evidences of eyes which cannot 
see it; — or a truth about the invisible (rod, by 
the authority of a law-book, such as Blackstone, or 
Starkie, or Vattel. But whatever evidences or 
proofs do, fitly, justly, convince a reasonable un- 
derstanding ; furnish that understanding with 
knowledge ; because they enable it to ascertain a 
reality, a certainty, so that the conviction of the 
mind accords with the fact. — That is what I call 
knowledge. Do you assent to the explanation ?" 

He replied, " I have no fault to find with it. 
A.nd if the whole of religion was as clear and cer- 
tain as that, I should not reject it." 

" The whole of it is as clear and certain as 
that, whatever you may think about it." 

" But," said he, " how do you apply your ex- 
planation to the existence of Grod? What are the 
evidences of his existence?" 

" There are numerous evidences, sir, and fit 
ones. Your own existence is one of them, and not 
a minor one. You are an effect. There is a causa 
somewhere, adequate to the production of such an 
effect. That cause, whatever it be, is Grod. You 
did not make yourself. Your parents, your an- 
cestors, however far back you trace them, were 



THE YOUNG IRISH .MAN. 11 

not self-created. Your own rr.ind assigns a cause 
somewhere, an original cause, and that cause is 
Grod. And you are just as certain, that there is 
such a Grod, as you are, that you are yourself ari 
effect. You know it just as well ; not in the same 
way; but yet, just as certainly. And you know 
you are an effect of an intelligent cause. Your 
common sense will not allow you to believe, that 
you and all your ancestors sprang from accident, 
from chance. You do not find chance operating 
in such a way. You do not fling dust in the air, 
and find it come down, a man or a monkey. If 
you should find anywhere a machine, a living or 
dead one, which had in it a tenth part as many 
manifestations of intention, and power, and skill, 
as your own mortal body ; you could not avoid 
believing, that some mind had contrived it, and 
some power beyond itself ha,d brought it into exist- 
ence. You would know it, as well as you know 
anything. The perfect proof is before you. And 
your own living body and thinking mind are per- 
fect proofs of the existence, power and wisdom, of 
Grod. — There is no assumption or dogmatism in 
this. It is only cool and certain reasoning, which 
conducts to an inevitable conclusion, and the con- 
clusion is knowledge. 

" On the same principle, the whole universe and 
its living inhabitants, rational and irrational — its 
Buns and comets, its whales and butterflies, its 



12 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

motes and mountains, are proofs of the existence 
and power of Grod. And every change, every mo- 
tion in the universe is an evidence which speaks for 
him. Our reason tells us, they are not uncaused. 
The cause is God." 

To all this, the young man listened with the 
most fixed attention. He seemed to drink in 
every word. I thought his attention had fatigued 
him ; but ho said, not at all, he loved to think. 
" But," said he, " you have led me into a new 
world of thinking. Your positions are very bold ; 
and before I come to any conclusion, I must re- 
view the matter in my own mind." 

" Shall I call on you to-morrow ?" said I. 

He answered, " I can scarcely ask it or expect 
it of you ; but if it is not too much trouble, I 
should like to see you again. You need not be 
afraid of wearying me. I can study or talk all 
day." 

The next day I called again. He appeared 
glad to see me, and immediately began to speak 
of our interview the day before. Said he, " Your 
bold position yesterday startled me. I have been 
thinking of your argument ever since. I cannot 
overthrow it. That idea about a change or a 
motion being an effect, and the human mind as- 
signing a cause to it, and our having knowledge 
on that ground, was new to me. But I find much 
that men call knowledge rests precisely on that 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 13 

ground And yet, I am not fully satisfied. I 
have been accustomed to think, that the existence 
of God was at least doubtful, that the proofs of it 
were very obscure, and when you brought up my 
own existence as a proof, it startled me. I have 
often said t) my aunt, that we know very little 
about spirit, — that we can understand matter, 
but spirit lies very much beyond our knowledge ; 
it is all a mystery to us. And now, though I 
dare not assail your position, or your arguments, 
still it does seem to me, that I have a degree of 
knowledge and certainty about bodies, that I can- 
not have about spirit ; and I should like to hear 
what you can say on that point." 

" I say that it is a mere impression," said I : 
" a common one indeed, but an erroneous one. 
There may be some faint apology for it. The 
most, if not all, of our primary ideas reach our 
mind through the inlet of the senses ; and there- 
fore, when such an idea as that of spirit is pre- 
sented to us, — spirit, a thing which we cannot 
see, cannot hear, cannot touch, cannot bring with- 
in the immediate cognizance of any of our bodily 
senses ; the idea appears to lie beyond the grasp 
of the mind, hung round with a deep, and misty, 
and mysterious obscurity. If eyes could see it, or 
hands could handle it, men would have none of 
this seeming uncertainty, and doubt. But since 
they cannot, and since the idea of spirit must 

2 



14 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

come to them through some other channel, for ex 
ample, by comparison, by reasoning, by tracing 
effect to cause, or some such device ; the whole 
doctrine of spirit assumes to them a kind of dim 
and misty significance, too much like an air}' 
fancy, or unsubstantial dream. That is just the 
state of your mind at the present moment. The 
seeming uncertainty is not a real uncertainty, it 
is only an impression ; and that is the reason why 
you dare not assail my argument of yesterday. 
Your reason perceives its truth, but your impres- 
sion and your prejudice are against it. 

" And since I am on this point now, I will pur- 
sue it, if you please, a little farther. — From the 
necessity of our nature, while here in the body, 
the most of us are more conversant with sensible 
objects, than spiritual ones. We employ, from 
morning till night, our sensitive organism in our 
ordinary occupation. We gain most of our knowl- 
edge itself in that mode ; and hence, when we 
turn to ideas of immateriality, we come into a 
new field, where we are almost strangers, and 
cannot therefore feel, as if we were among the 
familiar and well-known realities and o rtainties 
of home." 

He replied to this, " Do you mean to a Hrm, 
then, that human knowledge in respect to spirit is 
as clear and certain, as in respect to material 
things V 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 15 

" Certainly, sir ; I mean to affirm just that ; 
and I maintain, that the idea of the imperfection 
of our knowledge about spirit is all a mere im- 
pression and mere prejudice. The mind has 
taken an untenable position, and has espoused a 
falsehood, when men declare, ' we know littlo 
about spirit, — we can understand what matter is, 
but spirit is beyond our comprehension. 5 " 

" Have you been talking with my aunt V* 
says he. 

" No, sir ; I have not seen her ; though I 
should like to, very much." 

" I thought you had," says he ; " for I have 
made that affirmation, (which you just condemn- 
ed,) to her a thousand times ; and I thought she 
had told you." 

" I cannot help it," said I. " My position is 
taken, and I cannot retract. Unless you will re- 
tract your affirmation, I shall be compelled to 
show its falsity." 

" I am not prepared to retract it at all," said 
he ; " and if you have boldness enough to attempt 
to show its falsity, I am sure you do not lack 
courage ; and if I am not asking too much of 
you, I assure you I should be greatly pleased to 
hear what you have to say." 

" Well, then," said I, " we are at issue, and I 
have much to say, perhaps more than you have 
strength to hear." 



16 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

Said he, " I am not wearied at all. Yju need 
have no fear. I told you I love to think, and you 
delight me by setting me to thinking." 

" Then," said I, " I will enter upon the matter. 
— And in the outset, I admit, that our knowledge 
about matter comes in such a mode, that that 
knowledge has a vividness, and often an impres- 
siveness, which belongs to no knowledge gained 
in another way. We have a sensible organism, 
which brings us into contact with matter. Our 
nerves are affected by it. And through that ma- 
chinery, sensitive as it is inexplicable, we have 
impressions as well as knowledge, and have an in- 
stant certainty, which requires no slow and cool 
processes of reflection, or examination of eviden- 
ces. We see the sun ; and that is enough : the 
moment we have the sight, we have the knowl- 
edge. We hear the thunder ; and that is enough : 
the moment we hear, that moment we have the 
knowledge. We need not any other examination. 

" Now this sensitive machinery, and the instant 
rapidity and suddenness with which it acts, give 
to the knowledge which we gain in this way, a 
vividness, an impressiveness and force. But is 
not that all ? Have we any greater certainty 
about things seen, and things heard, and things 
handled, than we have about things reasoned and 
demonstrated ? How is this ? Can we trust the 
mechanism of our nerves, any better than we can 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 17 

trust the multiplication table, or the mathematical 
processes of astronomy and the counting-house ? 
any easier than we can trust the deep philosophy 
of law ? Indeed, is it not more probable, that 
some derangement should come in, among the 
mechanism of the senses, and make us see wrong, 
or hear wrong, or taste wrong, than that the sure 
processes of mathematical calculation should de- 
ceive us ? In our knowledge derived through the 
senses, we can employ only our own processes : 
nobody else can use iur nerves of sight, or hear- 
ing, or taste. But in our knowledge derived 
through mathematics, and in some other modes, 
we employ the same processes which others have 
employed before us, and are employing all around 
us ; and we can therefore fortify our own conclu- 
sions by theirs, and substantiate our certainty in 
knowledge, (if need be,) by a comparison of cal- 
culations. Their processes, by which they ob- 
tained their knowledge, their certainty, we can 
make our processes ; but we cannot use another 
man's eyes or ears, or the nervous mechanism by 
which they act. All we can do, is to take the 
testimony of the men who do use them ; an 1 
then, our knowledge rests only on testimony, not 
on the senses. And because we are confined to 
our own machinery of sense, and cannot employ 
another man's machine ; we have not, herein, one 
of the advantages for certainty, which attend 

2* 



18 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

knowledge in mathematics, and all other matters 
of reasoning. We can employ for our assurance, 
another man's reasoning powers, but his eyes are 
his own, and we cannot use them. We can add 
the testimony of one man to that of another man, 
and then add another, and make them all auxili- 
ary to our own, for heightening our assurance and 
certainty in knowledge ; but we can do nothing 
of this in the knowledge derived from the senses 
— we cannot borrow another man's nerves. And 
it follows from all this surely, that, instead of 
there being more ground of certainty in knowledge 
derived directly through the senses, there is less 
certainty than in knowledge that comes in some 
other modes," 

" Why," said he, interrupting me, " you do not 
intend to say that our knowledge is doubtful, 
when we see and hear ?" 

" Not exactly that," said I. " But 1 am com- 
paring different grounds of knowledge. And I ad- 
mit, that sensible knowledge is the more impres- 
sive, by reason, first, of its nervous machinery, 
and second, of its instant suddenness. It comes 
to the mind at once. It makes its impression at 
a dash We have no time to get cool, or keep 
cool, as we have in the slower business of reason- 
ing out our knowledge. But if this superior im- 
pressiveness is not all — if it is thought, that there 
is really any superior certainty attending what is 



THE YOUNG IK I SH MAX. 19 

known by the senses, let any man attempt to tdl 
what that certainty is, or where it lies. He can- 
not tell. He can tell nothing about it. Indeed, 
he can conceive nothing about it. The thing 
defies conjecture. — I can tell, why I believe my 
eyes, sooner than I believe the testimony of an 
unknown witness before me. I have known men 
testify falsely, oftener than I have known my eyes 
testify falsely ; and therefore, I have the more cer- 
tainty about my eyes. And I would not have the 
more certainty, if I could not tell why. And if 
my neighbor cannot tell why his knowledge de- 
rived through the senses has more certainty about 
it, than knowledge coming in some other way, 
though he believes it has, then I must beg leave 
to think him a very imperfect man ; and though 
I might trust his eyes, I would not trust his 
powers of reasoning. The truth is, it. is a mere 
prejudice, when men think, that they can know 
by the senses any more certainly, than in other 
ways. There is a vividness and impressiveness in 
knowledge gained through the senses, and this 
freshness and strength is mistaken for an addi- 
tional degree of certainty. The idea, then, so 
common among men, that the senses are the 
surest means of certainty, is all false. We can 
be equally certain on other grounds. It is not 
true, that while we have clear knowledge of mat- 
ter, we have only doubtful knowledge of spirit 



20 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

because spirit does not come within the cogni* 
zance of the senses. That notion has just mis- 
taken vividness of impression for strength of proof ; 
and i assumes* what is not true, that other kinds 
of evidence are not equal to the evidence of the 
senses — that we cannot know, because we have 
not seen." 

" Why," said he, " if my aunt were here now, 
she would rejoice over me. I have silenced her 
many a time by saying to her, if I could see Grod 
I would believe in him." 

" You are not alone in that," I answered. 
" Many have said it. But if it means anything, 
it is only a miserable assumption, a pitiful dog- 
matism. It assumes, that there is a just suspicion 
resting upon all evidence, except that of sense. 
It assumes too much. How far does this doubt 
about spirit intend to go ? what is precisely its 
ground ? If its ground is at all definable it is 
this, namely, that a degree of uncertainty attaches 
to all matters not evinced to us by our own senses. 
This is implied in the very language which men 
employ. They say, i if my eyes could see it, if 
my hands could handle it, I should know. But I 
cannot see or touch spirit.' "Well now, if we can 
know nothing but sensible objects, our knowledge 
will be extremely limited. Does this man know 
that he has got a soul ? He never saw it — ha 
never handled it — he cannot taste it Does he 



THE Y)UNG IRISHMAN. 21 

know that he has reason, or the power of reason- 
ing, or any mind at all ? He cannot sec his mind, 
or touch it. How, then, on his own principles, 
can he certainly know that he has got any ? 
Where will his doubting end ? He is bound to 
doubt whether he has a soul, — whether he has an 
imagination, a memory, a faculty of reason. In- 
deed, he is bound to doubt whether he has the 
power of doubting ; because, he never saw it, or 
touched it, tasted it, or heard it speak. So that 
his principle of doubting about spirit, if he will 
only be self-consistent, will cut him off from all 
that he calls certain knowledge, except merely on 
the field of matter, and indeed that part of the 
field, which lies within the reach of his fingers, 
his ears, or his eyes. On his own principles, he 
cannot certainly know anything more. — Just in 
this absurdity lies every man who exclaims, ' we 
cannot know much about spirit, — we are certain 
about matter, because our senses can reach it.' " 

My young friend appeared to be surprised. 
Said he, " You seem to be fond of turning the 
tables upon me. You make out, that the sin of 
assumption is more mine, than my aunt's." 

" So it is," said I. 

"Well," said he, (very thoughtfully and gravely,) 
*' 1 believe it is, after all ! I think I shall have to 
go to her to confession." 

" I hooe you will confess to God, also," said I / 



22 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

Ci for your sin of assumption was more odious to 
him than to her." 

" But I have not done with the charge. There 
is another item in this count. There is another 
false assumption in the notion which I am com- 
bating. Your notion is, that we can have a cer- 
tainty of knowledge about matter, such as we 
cannot have about spirit ; because our senses fur- 
nish evidence of matter, but not of spirit. This 
is a mere assumption, and a falsehood. Have 
you no sensible evidences of spirit ? When you 
move your tongue, and utter your arguments, are 
not the motion and the arguments any evidences 
of an unseen mind ? They are sensible evidences 
of something to me ; for I see the motion, and I 
hear the arguments. And will you tell me, that 
the matter of the tongue, the mere material of it, 
moves of its own accord, and weaves the argu- 
ments by its own power ? If not, then the mo- 
tion I see, and the arguments I hear, are sensible 
evidences of the existence of an unseen spirit, 
which prompts the motion and weaves the argu- 
ments. Though my senses do not directly reach 
the spirit itself, yet they do reach the effects of 
that spirit, ( — the motion of the tongue and the 
audible arguments,) wdiich come from the unseen 
mind. And thus my very senses do furnish me 
with an evidence of the existence of that mind, 
as clear and certain as if my eyes could behold it 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 23 

They do behold the effects of it — the traces of it— 
the signals of it, as clearly as they behold any- 
thing. The signals, the traces, the effects, cannot 
come from any other quarter. They must come 
from mind A reasonable argument must be a 
production of reason. And just as certainly as I 
hear it coming from human lips, just so certainly 
I have the evidence of two of my senses, that a 
mind exists somewhere, a spirit which has moved 
the lips, and contrived the argument. — It is, there- 
fore, an assumption and a. falsehood, when one 
says he has no sensible evidences of spirit, and 
hence cannot know much about it." 

The attention of my Irish friend was intently 
fixed on every word I had uttered. And when I 
paused, he remained silent for some minutes. At 
length he said to me : — 

" You have convinced me of one thing, at least. 
I perceive that I have often taken false ground. 
And yet, though I am not prepared to controvert 
your position, and it seems to me that your argu- 
ment is unassailable ; still, the manner in which 
you reason from effect to cause may have some 
error in it. At least, it is so new to me, that I 
am at a loss, though it all seems perfectly clear. 
Are we certain, after all, about causes and ef- 
fects." 

" Yes ; just as certain as we are of anything. 
There may be unfathomable mysteries somewhere 



24 'J' H E V V \ G IRIS H M A X. 

m the subject, just as there are in every other 
subject ; but I have had nothing to do with them. 
I have only employed the plain principle of com- 
mon sense, — that effects, changes, motions, must 
have some cause. Did your question mean to in- 
quire whether that principle is certain V- 

He sat in silence for a long time. I did not 
think it best to interfere with his thoughts. I 
took up one of his books, and retired to the win- 
dow, to await the result of his cogitations. He 
paced the floor, back and forth, for a full half 
hour, manifestly in profound meditation. Finally, 
stopping before me, he said : — 

" What is a cause ?" 

" That which produces the effect," said I ;— 
" an antecedent, without which the effect would 
not exist." 

" Is it certain" said he, " that there is a fixed 
connection betwixt the two ?" 

" Yes : you are certain of it, or you would not 
ask that question, or any other. You speak to me 
to produce an effect ; and speaking, you know, 
you are the designing cause. You employ this 
principle in every action of your life. You cannot 
act without it. You never did, and you never 
will. You cannot utter a word, or make a motion 
on any other principle, if you try." 

He made another long pause. And as he walk- 
ed the room, I went on reading my book But 



TKL Y O tJ N G IRIS H >! A X . 25 

finally, I laid aside the book, and took my hat, to 
depart, saying to him, that I would not have made 
my visit so long, if his residence had been more 
convenient for me to reach. 

" I must see you again," said he. " Can you 
give your company an hour or two to-morrow?" 

" Not to-morrow," said I ; " but I will see you 
the next day, if you please." 

" "Well, now do not disappoint me," said he. 
" I am sorry to trouble you, and I feel more grate- 
ful to you than I can express ; but I cannot rest 
our subject here, and I am afraid I could not 
manage it alone. I have been a sceptic on re- 
ligion for eight years ; and if left alone, I am 
afraid my old sceptical notions would return upon 
me." 

As I called upon him two days after, he imme- 
diately told me, that there were two points which 
he wanted cleared up. He had been studying the 
subject ever since I left him ; and acknowledged, 
that his mind was convinced, as far as I had gone. 
He " believed all my positions were impregnable." 

" But," said he, " your affair of cause and effect 
which you brought to bear upon me, like a bat- 
tery — wherein does the efficient power of the 
cause'lie ?" 

" In the will that wields it, sir." 

"What! in the will?" 

" Yes, sir, just in the will." 
3 



26 THE YOUNG IRISH M A If. 

" I am confounded ! What will come next V } 

" Your own conviction of truth, sir, will come 
very soon ; and the entire abandonment of your 
sceptical infidelity." 

" I believe it" savl he, very solemnly. " But 
you surprise me by saying, that power lies in 
will." 

" Just in will, sir," said I ; " nowhere else. This 
presides over the whole field of causes and effects. 
It belongs to the very nature of the human mind, 
to attribute any change which we behold, to 
something. That something we denominate the 
cause. It may not be itself the cause, only in- 
strumentally, unless it is the will ; and when 
it is not the will, then we must trace our way 
back through the instruments, till we reach the 
real seat of pow T er ; and we shall always find that 
to be the will. My motions, my speech, my walk- 
ing, are changes, and no sane man supposes them 
to be w;zcaused. Everybody supposes them, knows 
them, to proceed from some cause adequate to the 
production of the changes. This is common 
sense ; and on this principle every language on 
earth is formed. The principle is interwoven with 
the structure of the Greek, the Latin, the French, 
the Chinese, with every tongue. No man's mind 
rejects this principle. If anybody thinks changes 
to be uncaused, he is a madman or a fool. Com- 
mon sense always knows, that changes are the 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 27 

effects of some cause, which holds power over 
them. That cause, in respect to my motions, is 
my spirit. My motions are an effect. My spirit 
is the cause. The cause of all the changes in the 
universe is God. All these changes are effects 
coming from something, and that something 
(whatever it be,) is Grod. He is the great first 
cause of all things. But he has delegated to me - 
a little power, (for a time,) over a few particles of 
matter, which I call my body ; and by the exer- 
cise of that power, I can move. My agency is 
only a subordinate agency, limited, and not last- 
ing. It may last till I die, but no longer ; and 
then I must account for my stewardship. It ex- 
tends only to my own flesh. I cannot make a 
stone or a clod of earth move, by my willing it, as 
I can move my material frame. And, dependent 
creature that I am, I cannot move my material 
frame, except by the mysterious power of my 
spirit, which wills it,- — a power not my own, in 
the sense of independency, but only in the sense 
of subordination. But in this subordinate sense, 1 
am the cause of my own actions, and accountable 
for them, — sometimes to men, and always to Grod, 
" Now, just on this ground of common sense, 
my motions are all evidences of the existence of 
my spirit, which has power over them ; and the 
great motions of the universe are all evidences of 
an unseen Spirit, which has power over them. 



28 THE YOUNG RISHMAN. 

That unseen Spirit is God. These changes of the 
universe are visible. Our senses take note of 
them ; and therefore our senses, though they can- 
not directly reach the Divine Being, can reach, 
and reach everywhere, those changes which aro 
his effects, and demonstrations of his existence 
and mighty power. — This argument is rock. 
There is no getting away from it. These changes 
of the universe are effects, by the common con- 
sent of all mankind. Being so, they must have a 
cause : they demonstrate the existence of a cause. 
And whatever that cause be, it is God. Our 
senses come in contact with the effects ; — and 
now, who shall maintain, that we have not as 
good evidences about God, as if our eyes could 
behold him ? It may be less sudden, less start- 
ling, and hence less impressive evidence ; but is it 
not as good ? May I not be as certain as if I saw 
him ? Do not I know, that a cause of visible 
changes is operating, just as well as I know the 
effects which I behold. If there is any uncer- 
tainty about my knowledge of God in this way 
of knowing, let any man attempt to tell where it 
lies. He cannot tell. — The changes ? my eyes 
see them. I therefore know them by evidences 
of sense. They are effects. I know this by my 
common sense, and the common sense of every 
man around me. And the cause of these effects, 
you must either allow to be the Deity, or y n 



THE YOUNG IR1SHM.V5T. L'9 

must maintain, that dumb matter, mere dirt and 
rock, has reason, and will, and power of motion, 
of its own. — And coming in contact with these 
effects constantly, as I do, I certainly am unable 
to perceive, why I do not positively know there is 
a Q-od, as well as I know there is a sun that 
moves, or a drop of rain that falls. My knowl- 
edge may not be impressive and startling ; but is 
it not real — certain — founded on good and legiti- 
mate evidences ? 

"And now, what is power? or, where does it 
lie ? or, what wields it ? "Where is its seat ? its 
home ? Where does power originate ? There is 
something which men call power — something 
which is capable of effecting some change ; and 
the question you put to me is, what is it ? or, 
where is the seat of it? And the answer is, 
power lies in the spirit — not in matter ', but in 
spirit. The power by which all changes in mat- 
ter are effected, resides immediately in spirit, in 
mind. The power by which I move a muscle 
does not belong to the muscle itself. The muscle 
is only an instrument which obeys that act of my 
spirit, which I call my will. My will is that 
mysterious thing with which my Maker has in* 
vested me, and by which I can move. The will 
is the power. We cannot move a single a^om of 
matter in the universe without it. It has a direct 
power over our bodies in health, and till we die ; 

8* 



30 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN, 

and an indirect power over a little other matter. 
Acting indirectly, our will can bring our bodies, 
cr some portion of our material frame, into con- 
tact with other matter ; and thus we can effect 
some changes in that other. The stones we lift, 
the mountains we level, the ships we build, are 
all lifted, and leveled, and built, by the power of 
our will. Power resides nowhere but in spirit. 
You speak of the mechanical powers, and I am 
not going to find fault with your language. But 
let not the imperfection of language mislead your 
understanding, — as it certainly does, if you sup- 
pose these mechanical powers have an item of 
power of their own. They have none. The 
power exists only in your will. You use them. 
You bring your hands, or feet, or some other por- 
tion of your body into contact with some other 
matter, the lever, the screw, the pulley ; and thus 
you ivillingly employ these contrivances to do 
what you could not do without them. But the 
lever, the screw, the wedge, the pulley, have not 
an item of power in themselves. Nobody ever 
saw them doing anything alone. It is will, it is 
spirit, which employs them. . The will first formed 
the contrivances themselves ; and could not form 
them so as to invest them with power to work 
alone. And the will, in every instance of their 
operation since they are formed, must come along 
with its continued power, or they will do noth* 



THE YOO.XG IRISHMAN. 31 

i n g ? — can do nothing. They have no power, be- 
cause they have no will. — You have, then, this 
great, universal lesson, Poiver resides only in 
mind : all power exists in spirit, and in spirit 
only. 

" God's will is his power. He employs his 
power directly or indirectly, as he pleases. He 
can use instruments, or do without them. He 
has no need of them, as you have. The direct 
power of your own spirit is limited — it is limited, 
as I said, to the few particles of matter which 
make up your mortal body ; and if you would 
move or change anything beyond that, you must 
contrive some mode to bring your material body 
into contact or some connection with it. But 
God, the unseen, eternal Spirit, is able to bring 
the power of his will to bear directly upon all 
things, — as directly as the power of your will 
bears upon the body it, moves. He has only to 
will it, and any conceivable change will instantly 
take place. The power all lies in the Infinite 
Spirit. God is Spirit. His will is the effect. 
Nothing intervenes between his volition and the 
change which follows it, to give any power to the 
volition itself. The mere volition is all his power. 
— Awful God ! Tremendous Deity ! On his 
simple volition hangs this mighty universe of be- 
ing ! Earth, heaven, hell depend upon it ! If he 
should will it, there would not be an angel in 



32 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

heaven, or a devil in hell ! existence would cease ! 
this universe would become a blank ! and nothing 
would be, except ' that high and lofty One, who 
inhabiteth eternity !' — Oh ! who would not have 
this G-od for his friend ? Oh ! who could endure 
to have him his enemy ? — Enemy ? sooner, come 
annihilation ! Let me perish — let my spirit die — 
let all these thinking faculties, my soul, go out in 
eternal night, sooner than have this awful G-od 
against me ! — It need not be. That G-od who 
' spake and it was done,' who ' commanded and it 
stood fast,' who said, ' let there be light and there 
was light,' — this God is love. I hear a voice 
coming from resurrection lips, ' all power in 
heaven and earth is given unto me ; go ye into all 
the world and preach the gospel to every crea- 
ture, and, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the 
end of the world. He that belie veth shall be saved 
— though he were dead, yet he shall live again/ 
Blessed words ! blessed Saviour ! Open your 
heart, sir, to this message. Take this offer. Pool 
sinner as you are — weak mortal — being of a day, 
and soon to lie in the dust ; cast your immortal 
soul upon the power of this Christ, to save you 
from eternal death, and give you life evermore !" 

As I uttered this exhortation with all the force 
I could give to it, my young friend sunk back 
upon his chair, with his eyes fixed immovably 
upon me ; and held his breath, in a sort of agony 



T II E Y DUNG IRIS H M A X. 33 

of addition. He turned more pale than I had 
ever seen him. And when I stopped, he drew a 
long breath, his eyelids dropped over his eyeballs, 
and he looked like a corpse. 

" I beg your pardon," said I. " I have talked 
too long. I have wearied your strength." 

" Not at all," said he ; " but you have conquer- 
ed me. I see I have been wrong. — But I must 
think of this more." 

I replied, " I hope you will. And I will see 
you again in a few days." 

As he had not fixed any time for another visit, 
and as I wished to leave him some time for re- 
flection, I did not call on him again for two days. 
As I then entered his room, he said to me : — 

" I am glad to see you. And I am glad you 
have come so early in the morning. You will be 
able to make me a long visit, I hope. I should 
have sent for you, but I know I am taking up too 
much of your time." 

" Oh, no ; not at all," said I. " But have you 
not gained the victory over your doubts ?" 

" Partly. I will tell you how it is with me. 
You recollect I told you about my difficulty. I 
thought, that nothing about spirit was really eer- 
tain,, as we are certain about material things 
And still, some of the same difficulty occurs to 
ine, and often tempts me and troubles me ; 
though I believe all you have said about Grod's 



34 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

existence and will, and about cause and effect 
When I attempt to pray, the idea will come up to 
me, that I have not such a certain knowledge 
about Gfod, and about my own spirit, as I have 
about objects of sense. My knowledge about 
spirit seems to me to be inferior. Can you relieve 
me from this trouble ?" 

" Probably not," said I. " This matter is not a 
truth, but what you have just called it, a tempta- 
tion. And I cannot chain the devil, or check the 
evil suggestions of your own heart. What I have 
already said to you, I did suppose to be sufficient 
on that point, so far as the mind is concerned. If 
you are tempted, your hope lies in prayer." 

" But yet," said he, " I do think, that material 
objects assail the mind, as mental or spiritual 
ideas do not ; and I think that we have a more 
extensive knowledge of matter, than we can have 
of spirit. And hence, I feel that I am not on as 
sure ground in the abstract and spiritual matters 
of religion, as I wish to be." 

" We are at issue again," said I, " if that is 
the case." 

He replied, " I know that very well. And I 
half know that I am wrong. But I cannot get 
my mind clear, on these points." 

" I think you can," said I. " And at the risk 
of some little repetition, (which indeed seems to 
be needful to you,) I join issue with you again. 



THE VUL'NG IRISHMAN. 35 

"You speak of knowledge. And you want to 
be as sure in religious knowledge, as you feel that 
you are in other matters ; and you want your 
knowledge to be as extensive. You affirm, that 
that there is, after all, a deficiency on these 
points. I affirm there is not." 

" Exactly that," he replied. 

11 Then," said I, " let us attempt to examine 
these questions. 

4 '"What is it to know? "Where does knowledge 
lie ? W r hat is that kind of operation, exercise, or 
experience, which men call knowledge ? W r e 
want no school metaphysics on this point. Meta- 
physical fog is not equal to the noon-day clearness 
of common sense. 
"Knowledge is the ascertainment which the 
mind has of some certainty or reality. It does 
not make the certainty. That exists before. It is 
only a recognition of it. That recognition, or sure 
perception of mind, (call it what you will,) is 
knowledge. — Knowledge, then, exists in the mind : 
not in matter, but in mind : not in the matter of 
your bones, or blood, or muscles, of your eyes that 
see, or your ears that hear. Knowledge exists 
only in mind. The mind has a sure perception 
:>f some reality, and that is knowledge." 

" Yes" said he, emphatically. 

" This percept* 3n," I continued, " comes indeed, 
in different ways I perceive some truths by my 



ii6 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

eyes ; as when I behold the sun, or admire a rose- 
bud. I perceive other truths by my ears ; as 
when I leap at the sound of music, or trembl* at 
the thunder. I perceive other truths by my 
reason ; as wh 3n I know that the half of any sub- 
stance is not as much as the whole, or that two 
men are stronger than one, if all three are equals. 
But in all cases, the perception is in the mind : 
the ascertainment of the certainty, the knowledge, 
exists in the mind, and nowhere else." 

" Yes" said he, 

*' Now, therefore, if any man knows he has 
knowledge, he knows he has mind. And he 
knows another thing about it, — he knows it is a 
knowing' mind, a spirit capable of knowing, of 
perceiving truth. And what, then, does the man 
mean, when he pretends he knows little about 
mind ? about spirit ? He cannot know anything 
about matter, without knowing something about 
spirit. It is his spirit only that knows. He does 
not know with his hands, or his feet, or his eyes. 
He knows only with his mind. And if he knows 
that rock is hard, or night dark, or water fluid, he 
equally knows, that he himself possesses a per- 
ceiving, knowing mind — a reasonable spirit within 
him ; capable of being affected by a reality." 

" Yes" said he, (as if he would fix it in mind.) 

" But he is certain of these things. He savs 
he is. He feels the hard rock — he sees water run 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 37 

— his eyes tell him it is dark in the night. But 
where lies his certainty ? Why, he is just certain 
of his own mind, — that is all. He is just certain, 
that he has got a mind to be certain— that he has 
a perceiving spirit within him, capable of know- 
ing things without him ; knowing, that rock is 
hard, and water fluid, and night dark. He is 
therefore reduced just to this,— he cannot be cer- 
tain of anything at all, without being certain 
of mind — certain that he possesses a spirit capa- 
ble of perceiving and knowing." 

" That is true" said he, most emphatically. 

" Does he not, then, learn to know spirit as fast 
as he learns to know matter ? Can he stretch out 
his fingers anywhere upon a tangible universe, 
and take a lesson upon it ; and not therewith, 
take a lesson upon the spirit, which alone per- 
ceives its tangibility ? Can he open his eyes, 
amid the flowers of his beautiful garden, and ad- 
mire the sweet pencillings which delight him, and 
not, at the same moment, just as well know, that 
he himself has a spirit capable of admiration and 
delight, as he knows the hues of beauty which 
are blending into one another ? Can he listen to 
the wild-bird's song, and the forest-echo which re- 
peats it, and not just as well know, that he him- 
self has a spirit within him susceptible of the 
sweets of music and the soothing of its melting 
echoes, as he knows, that his feathered friend 

4 



38 THE YOU N G IRIS II 2VI A N. 

upon the wing has a mellow throat and an exult- 
ant song ? This man, this very man, who de- 
plores his uncertainty about spirit, cannot himself 
take a single step in the knoivledge of matter, 
without, at the same moment, taking a step in the 
knowledge of spirit. Every new lesson he learns 
about material things which affect his senses, is a 
new lesson about the immaterial spirit which 
learns it. He cannot know a single quality in 
matter, without knowing a quality in spirit ; for 
mind only has knowledge. He knows with his 
spirit. And if he is sure of anything, he must be 
sure of the spirit which has the surety." 

" Yes" said he. " I now admit all that. 1 
confess that I cannot have any certainty about 
matter, unattended by an equal certainty about 
mind. But here is my trouble : — the surety in 
reference to matter comes into the mind through 
the channel of the senses. The organic structure 
is affected — the nerves of seeing, hearing, feeling, 
tasting, or smelling. And therefore, is not the 
knowledge about spirit inferior to this ; because it 
is a kind of knowledge, that does not affect this 
organic structure ?" 

"How can it be inferior?" said I. " Knowl- 
edge exists in mind. Is it any matter how it got 
there ? If it is there, and is knowledge, what 
matter is it, whether it got in by one channel or 
another ? If our houses are light, is not the light 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 39 

which comes through the open doors as trust- 
worthy a reality, as that which is transmitted 
through the glass ol the windows ? Knowledge 
is knowledge, no matter how it comes. Certainty 
is certainty. If it comes through our sensitive 
organism, it is knowledge. If it comes by con- 
sciousness or reason, it is knowledge. And the 
idea, that all knowledge which comes through our 
sensitive organism is genuine and sure, while all 
other must lie under a suspicion of being counter- 
feit or unsafe ; is an idea which would overthrow 
more than half the science, and more than half 
the jurisprudence of all mankind. Nobody acts 
upon it. Nobody ever did, or ever will, except 
simply in the matter of religion, when depraved 
men wish to cast off its obligations. There is not 
a human being to be found, who ever resorts to this 
idea of the inferiority of all but sensible knowl- 
edge, except when error suits his heart better than 
truth — when he is blinded by the love of sin — 
when he dislikes the duties of the gospel, such as 
prayer, and preparation for a future life. 

But more. You spake of the organic structure, 
and the nerves, and the channel of the senses, as 
if one could be more sure when his material body 
is affected, and he learns anything in that way." 

Said he, " That is the very point. Speak to 
that." 

" Then think a little farther," said I. " Two 



40 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

of our most important senses seem very much 
like an exception, usually. In our seeing and in 
our hearing, the organ that sees and the organ 
that hears are seldom touched so rudely, as to 
make us sensible at all, that anything has touch- 
ed it. And yet, this seeing and this hearing, the 
very senses which come nearest to spirituality, 
the very senses whose organism is seldom sensible 
to matter at all ; — these are the very senses in 
which every man has most confidence, and most 
employs. Every man seems himself to be assur- 
ed most, w T hen in his bodily organs sensibility of 
impression is least. 

"But beyond this, and beyond the fact, that it 
is the mind which see-s and feels, and not the 
mere organs, (which can do nothing alone,) it is 
not true, that matter alone can affect our material 
organism, and thus give us more surety about it- 
self. Thought, pure thought, affects it also. You 
may find a merchant, whose mere contemplation 
of his embarrassed affairs makes him tremble 
like an aspen leaf. His mind affects his material 
body, and his mind alone. He is not in jail. 
The sheriff has not seized him. He is not turned 
out of his house. His eyes have not seen his 
ships sink, or his goods burn. But he trembles^ 
and turns pale, and loses his appetite, and grows 
lean ; and all this, from the mere knowledge he 
has, that ho is an irretrievable bankrupt. — And 



I'HE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 41 

what will you say to him ? "Will you bring him 
your sweet doctrine of uncertainties to comfort 
him ? and cheeringly assure him, that he may be 
altogether mistaken, that he cannot be quite sure^ 
because he has not seen his gold sink, or his goods 
burn, or his debtors run away ? — You may find a 
culprit, whose crimes are known only to himself, 
— you lawyers know nothing about them, — and 
yet, under a sense of his guilt he is shaken, as a 
reed in the wind. His knowledge affects his 
nerves. c A dreadful sound is in his ears.' He 
turns pale, and trembles. ' The sound of the 
shaken leaf shall chase him.' — x\.nd what will 
you say of such examples ? This knowledge — a 
knowledge apart from the senses — a knowledge 
existing only in mind, by reflection and conscious- 
ness, as really and powerfully affects the material 
body itself, as any sensible knowledge can da. 
Yea, more so. 4 The spirit of a man sustaineth 
his infirmity ; but a wounded spirit, who can 
bear ?' And what will you say now, about the 
uncertainty of knowledge which does not come by 
what you called ' the channel of the senses,' when 
these men find their nerves shattered, their mus- 
cles trembling, the circulation of their blood de- 
ranged, and their whole material frame under the 
dreadful sway of a thought within them — just a 
thought ? If you cannot believe in the reality 
and surencss of knowledge, which does net some 



42 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

by matter . you must at least believe in the 
reality of a knowledge, which makes the whole 
matter of a man's frame tremble, as if it would 
shake to pieces. Look at him, and answer ; — - 
have you certainty only about matter ? have you 
not equal certainty about mind ? Do you not 
know, that it possesses a dreadful power ? that it 
has capabilities of thought, of apprehension, of 
agony and torture inconceivable ? Do you not 
know, that these are the realities, the certainties, 
compared with which, all the certainties about 
matter are a mere dream ?" 

" Yes" said he ; (springing upon his feet, like 
a well man,) " I do know it. I shall never call 
that in question again." 

"With a contemplative air, he walked a few 
times across the floor, and then turning suddenly 
to me, exclaimed very earnestly : — 

" But the extent of knowledge, sir, the extent 
of knowledge ! Our knowledge of spirit is limit- 
ed! "We know many things about matter, and 
only a few about spirit ! The essence of spirit is 
unknown to us ! We cannot tell what spirit is, 
sir !" 

" I venture to affirm you can tell what spirit is, 
just as well as you can tell w 7 hat matter is. You 
know T just as much about tho essence of the one, 
as you do about the essenae of the other. — Be so 
good as to make a little comparison. Take any 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 43 

example you will. Here is a rock. It is matter, 
not spirit. Well what do you know about it ? 
You know it is hard and heavy* and has figure or 
shape, and has some kind of color, and it may be, 
some sort of odor. But what of all that? We 
are asking about the essence of matter, and take 
the rock for an example. "What is the essence of 
it ? It has weight. Is its weight the essence ? 
It has shape. Is its shape the essence ? It has 
color. Is its color the essence ? It has hardness. 
Is its hardness the essence of matter ? Every- 
body says, no, no ! Then, what is its essence ? 
what is that something, that substratum, that 
real existence, in which all these qualities of color, 
and figure, and weight, and solidity exist? — No 
man can tell ! 
"Turn then to a spirit. Here, for example, is 
your own soul — the thing which now attends to 
my ideas. What is the essence of it ? It is 
spirit — no matter at all, about it. Well, what do 
you know of it ? You know, it perceives, it 
thinks, it remembers, it reasons, it imagines, it 
fears, it hopes, it resents, it has joy sometimes, 
and sometimes sorrow. But is joy its essence ? or 
sorrow ? or hope ? or memory ? or hate ? or love ? 
or judgment ? or thinking ? Everybody says, no, 
no ! Then, what is its essence ? what is that 
something, that substratum, that real existence; 



44 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN, 

in which all these qualities of thought anl feeling 
exist ? — No man can tell ! 

"Sum up the whole rock, then, and the whole 
soul, and just confess, sir, that you know as much 
about the essence of the one, as you do about the 
essence of the other. Your knowledge about the 
essence of matter is just equal to your knowledge 
about the essence of mind. — What do you mean, 
then, when you say you know something surely 
about matter, but you know little about spirit? 
You know, indeed, some qualities of both ; and 
beyond that your knowledge does not extend." 

My young friend had become by this time ex- 
ceedingly excited. His excitement, which seem- 
ed to have been growing upon him for half an 
hour, had risen, as it seemed, to the highest pitch. 
His cheek was fkfehed, his eye sparkled, his 
frame rose erect, and he paced the room, more 
with the firm tread of a soldier, than the feeble 
step of a sick man. Fearing his excitement might 
do him an injury, I proposed to leave him, and 
allow him to rest. 

" No, sir!" said he, (with an accent as if he 
was angry,) "no, sir; you are not to leave me 
yet ! You have asked me to confess ! And I do 
confess ! I yield this point ! Your argument is 
unanswerable ! But, sir, the victory has been all 
on one side, ever since we commenced these con- 
versations ; and I am chagrined, I am deeply mor- 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 45 

tified at my defeat ! My blood boils in my veins* 
and all the life there is left in me is aroused, 
when I perceive you are pushing me farther and 
farther in the position of a sinner against Grod, 
with all my eternity to cry out against me ! Do 
not mistake me, sir. My excitement is not against 
you ; it is against myself ! And I have an inch 
or two of ground left yet. I say, that you have 
not answered all my objections. I affirmed, that 
we have a more sure knowledge of material 
things, than we have of our spirits or any spirit ; 
because we have a more extensive knowledge. 
Our knowledge of spirit is limited. — What do you 
say to that ?" 

" I say, that our knowledge of matter is limited 
also, and the more limited of the two. I say, that 
we have more extensive knowledge of spirit, than 
we have of matter." 

" Is it possible !" said he. " Gro on then. Show 
it to be so. I will sit down and listen." 

" Another time perhaps you — " 

" Do not mention another time," said he, in- 
terrupting me. " I may be a dead man, before I 
see you again ! Tell me now ! Take away, if 
you can, the last inch of ground I have left ; and 
show me to be without excuse in the sight of that 
God, in whom you have compelled me to believe, 
and before whom I mus^ soon stand ! I am a 
dying man. I have no time to lose." 



46 T HE YOUNG IRISH M A N. 

M Since you desire it," said I, " let me prove to 
you, that we know more things about spirit, than 
we do about matter. We know a few qualities in 
each. Compare them with one another. Make 
two chapters ; — one for the known properties of 
matter, the other for the known properties of 
spirit ; and then, compare the chapters, and see, 
of which your knowledge is the most extensive, 
matter or spirit : — 

11 First chapter: On Matter. You know it has 
the following qualities, to wit; — weight, color, 
(sometimes,) figure, inactivity, hardness, smell, 
(sometimes,) and it is movable. This is about 
all you know. All else you can say of it, is in- 
cluded in these properties, or results from them. 

" Second chapter : On Spirit. You know it has 
the following properties, to wit ; — it perceives, it 
compares, it judges, it reasons, it remembers, it 
wills, it fancies, it has conscience, it has imagina- 
tion, it has consciousness or perception of its own 
acts, it is capable of pain and pleasure. That is 
enough. You need go no farther. Cut the chap- 
ter short. You have more knowledge about spirit, 
than you have about matter — more extensive 
knowledge. You can tell of more properties of 
spirit, than of matter. Your spirit chapter Vk 
longer than your matter chapter. In one word 
you do positively know a great deal more about 
spirit, than you do about matter. Your knowl- 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 47 

tdgc of matter is confined to just a few qualities ; 
but your knowledge of spirit is far more extensive, 
embracing all kinds of operation, all kinds of 
thought, all kinds of emotions and passions." 

" All true /" said he. " I confess it. But spirit 
may have other faculties or properties which we 
know nothing about." 

" So may matter,'- said I. " So may matter. 
But that is an idea addressed to our ignorance. 
"We are talking about knowledge. What we do 
not know, about spirit or about matter, has noth- 
ing to do with our subject, or with our duty. We 
want knowledge to act upon and to die upon. A 
mere perhaps, about something else, does not 
weigh a feather against known truth. A perhaps 
is bad foothold for a dying man. You would be 
ashamed of this kind of suggestion in court. Mat- 
ter and spirit both may have a thousand qualities, 
which we know nothing about. But we act like 
fools, if we will not breathe the air, because it 
may have some unknown properties ; — and we act 
just as much like fools, if we will not repent and 
believe in Christ, because our immortal soul may 
have some unknown properties. Religion asks us 
to act upon knowledge, upon certainty. Infidelity 
must always act upon ignorance, if it acts at all. 
And for that reason, I affirmed to you, the first 
time I saw you, that infidels ax^ the most credu- 
lous, assuming and dogmatic men in the world." 



48 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

" That is true" said he, (rising suddenly from 
his seat,) " that is all true. — I have done. I havd 
no more to say. I have been a fool, and have 
groped in the dark all my days ! I have spent my 
life in conjecturing what might be, and neglecting 
what is, and what I now know is." 

Being quite certain that he was exhausting his 
strength too much, I entreated him to rest, pro- 
posing to call on him again, at any time he should 
choose. 

" Have you seen my aunt to-day?" said he, 
suddenly. 

" No ; I have not had that pleasure ; but I be- 
gin to think I have a kind of right to see her." 

" I thought you had seen her. You talk just as 
she does about my exhausting my strength ; and I 
thought she might have given you a little blar- 
ney, to have me receive it second-hand, since I re- 
fused it from her." 

" No, I have never seen her." 

" She ought to see you. She is a noble woman. 
You would like her. Her beauty has bidden her 
good night, long, long ago, but her heart is as 
green as a shamrock. I love her. My heart will 
warm towards her, after its blood shall be too stiff 
to move at anything but the thought of her. She 
has a true Irish heart. There is no English blood 
in her." 

" Perhaps," said I, " some sf her excellencies 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 49 

which you admire, may be owing quite as much 
to Palestine as to Ireland. I can very honestly 
assure you of my high admiration of the Irish 
character. When I once heard one of the Judges 
of the Supreme Court warmly affirm, ' the most 
noble living creature in the world is a well-edu- 
cated Irishman,' my whole heart accorded with 
the declaration of that great man, with no other 
reserve than the idea, that religion is the crowning 
excellence of men, after all. But I suppose he 
had no reference to religion, and I therefore adopt- 
ed the sentiment as my own. — But now I wish to 
ask you to discriminate a little, betwixt your 
aunt's qualities as an Irish woman, (which I have 
no doubt are great,) and her qualities as a Chris- 
tian woman. In my opinion, her Christian excel- 
lencies, you call Irish excellencies , and, what in 
her, helps to bind your heart to the Emerald Isle, 
ought to bind it also to the Saviour she adores. 
Indeed, I have no hesitation in expressing the 
opinion, that however admirable she may be as an 
Irish woman, she is far more admirable as a 
Christian woman. You ought to do justice to her 
religion, and feel the force of her character and ex- 
ample. I will venture to affirm for her, that she 
herself, much as she loves Ireland, will tell you, 
that she is indebted to the rose of Sharon, more 
than to the green of the Shamrock. Love Ireland, 
sir, as much as you will. I have no quarrel with 

5 



50 THE YOTNG IRISHMAN. 

you on that ground. But do justice, in your esti- 
mations, to a heavenly religion, and to what lies 
nearest to your aunt's own heart. She, I venture 
to affirm, will lay down all the honors you can 
heap upon her, at the foot of the cross. It will 
grieve her, to have you honor her country, and 
not honor her Christ." 

Springing suddenly upon his feet, with a look 
of astonishment and indignation, he stood before 
me, bending almost over me : — 

" You have seen her" said he, with an accent 
of resentment. 

" I have not" said I, firmly. 

" Do you speak true ?" said he. 

" Sir," said I, " my word must not be called in 
question, anywhere." 

Said he, " I beg your pardon. Excuse me : I 
was wrong. But it suddenly occurred to me, that 
you and my aunt were playing a game with me, 
T thought she had been telling you all about me." 

" What gave you such a suspicion ?" 

" Because you employed one of her own 
thoughts ; — that I honored her country and her 
blood, when I ought to have given the honor to 
her Redeemer. She has said it to me, the day, 
gir, and often in past time. But do not look so 
stern upon me. I thought she had been telling 
you. I take back what I said. I beg your par- 
don. I am incapable of offering you an insult." 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 51 

44 Let that pass," said I ; "I play no games 
upon anybody. I only desire your good." 

" I know it. And I thank you for every word 
you have said to me. I could have no claim upon 
you for so much kindness. You have given me 
much of your time. Your patience has not been 
worn out with me. You have done what few 
men could do ; you have seen the heart of me 
rightly, and have indulged me in having my own 
strange way in talking about religion, as I believe 
few ministers would have done. And if there is 
a G-od in heaven, he will reward you, — I know he 
will reward you." 

The tears gushed from his eyes ; and pulling 
his handkerchief from his pocket, he turned away 
from me, to the window, and wept convulsively. 
After a moment, turning suddenly to me, with a 
manifest effort to control his emotions, he said :— 

" I am too apt to lead you off from our subject 
I am sorry for it. But you have prevailed by 
yielding to me. — I want you to stay a little 
longer to-day, if you can. I have not long to 
live. This cough and these night-sweats will 
soon wear me out. I should be an idiot to hope 
to get well. I have no company now, except 
yours and my aunt's. Conversation does not hurt 
me ; and it would be no matter, you know, if it 
did. I am soon to go. Earth has done with me. 
The grave lifts up her voice to claim me. I am 



52 THE YOUNG RISHMAN. 

preparing to say, yes, I come. But one thing 
troubles me. My heart is, to tell you that dif- 
ficulty. It is not easy for me to keep clear 
from my old infidel thoughts , and I want to tell 
you how I was led on to be an infidel." 

" I should like to hear that very much," said I. 
li And as to your amount of strength, I leave you 
to judge of it. I will go or stay, just as you de- 
sire, only tell me frankly what your desire is." 

" I thank you," said he ; (his eyes filling with 
tears,) " I am unable to tell you how much my 
very heart thanks you. I know there is little 
value in the thanks of a dying man ; but they 
are all I have to give, and my heart forces them 
to my tongue." 

" I ought to thank yon" said I, " for these in- 
terviews. They gratify me much, and I assure 
you they profit me too." 

After a short pause, and subduing his emotions, 
he continued : — 

" For some time I have been astonished at my- 
self. My thoughts are full of evil. The old fol- 
lies will come over me. They torment my mind ; 
and I know they offend Grod. My infidelity had 
become interwoven with my strongest feelings. 
Though I have been led to know its deceptions, 
its old lies still haunt me, as if a host of infernal 
spirits were sent to thrust them back into my 
heart This troubles me I am vexed' with my- 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 5tJ 

self, because I have not vigor of mind to stand te 
the truth, since I have been convinced of it. My 
wickedness within is too mighty for me. Satan 
tempts me with his lies. It is Satan. He comes 
to me suddenly. He comes at midnight some- 
times, when I would pray, if I could ; and the 
horrible idea darts like an arrow, into my mind, 
4 religion is all a delusion.' I have said that to 
my aunt very often; and now Satan says it to 
me. I know it is a lie ; but the thought torments 
my very soul." 

" You need not be troubled about it," said I. 
" If you hunted up the idea yourself, or, if you 
welcomed it, when it comes, you would have some 
cause for trouble and alarm. It is not tempta- 
tion that can injure us, or prove our insincerity. 
The treatment we give to temptation is the thing 
to be looked at. Since the temptation comes to 
you without your bidding, and since you do not 
welcome it, but reject it, and aim to dismiss it, a.% 
a temptation ; the treatment you give it accords 
with the will of God, and shows that you desire 
and intend to obey him." 

" So I do, sir ; but my wicked heart is over? 
flowing with evil. I wanted to tell you how my 
unbelief became blended with my blood. I am 
an Irishman. Early in life my country's wrongs 
lay on my heart, like a burden. My blood burns 
at this moment, to think of the oppressions of 

5* 



54 THE YOUN G I It I 8 H M A N 

England ! Before the suns of a dozen summers 
had shone upon me, I had learnt to say, ' the 
English are tyrants and hypocrites. They profess 
to be a Christian people. But they wrong my 
country !' As I grew older I read history. I read 
the court trials, which grew out of what they 
called ' the Irish rebellion of ninety-eight.' I read 
of Emmet, and other men like him, led to a 
disgraceful execution, when they deserved the 
plaudits of all mankind ! I read Curran's 
Speeches. I read of the infamous informers hired 
by the government to swear to anything, in order 
to get the blood of an Irishman ! The English 
have oppressed us, sir ! They have ruined Ire- 
land by the most cruel and heartless injustice ! by 
their tyranny and taxation ! and then to crown 
their barbarity, they call us low, and stupid, and 
incapable of improvement, sir ! and all this, 
though their victories have been bought with 
Irish blood, and no small part of the eloquence of 
their Parliament itself was the eloquence of Irish- 
men." 

He was becoming so much excited, that I 
thought it best to interpose, for the purpose of 
quieting his feelings, and leading his thoughts 
into another channel. I said to him : — 

" The things, you complain of, were acts of the 
Government, not of the people. Many of tho 
people did not approve of them. None of the 



THE YOUNG HUSH MAN. 55 

Christian people approved of any injustice. It 
was not religion, but irreligion, which led to any 
oppression ; and you ought not to lay down at the 
door of Christianity the blame which belongs to 
her enemies. You attribute to religion, what you 
ought to attribute to the want of it. If all the 
people and the government had been controlled by 
the principles of Christianity, there would have 
been none of those wrongs which so much excite 
you." 

" I know it, sir. I am sure of it," said he. 
" But I was telling you how I was made an in- 
fidel. The English boast of their magnanimity. 
They talk loftily of ' English honor, 5 and of their 
4 religion.' And only a few days since — let me 
see — it was this day eight-days, as I was reading 
an old paper, I came upon the place where one of 
your own statesmen calls England, ' the bulwark 
of our holy religion.' It is too much, sir! Op- 
pression, heartless and unrelenting oppression car- 
ried on through ages, cannot be justified ! There 
is no apology for it. And after all this ; for the 
English to speak of their Christianity, and call 
themselves 'the most religious nation on earth,' 
and make other people believe it — sir, there never 
was any impudence equal to this ! Look at India, 
sir ! The English have made her red with the 
blood of her innocent children ! They have made 
themselves rich with the gold, of which they have 



56 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

robbed her ! They have butchered the half-civil- 
ized people by the thousands and hundreds of 
thousands ! with no decent argument of justice, 
and for no other reason, than to gratify their own 
lordly pride and get riches by the right of their 
cannon ! And when the news of a new victory 
over the feeble reaches ' brave. England ;' they 
call themselves a religious people, and give thanks 
to Grod in their churches for success on another 
field of butchery ! This completes the farce ; till 
the very next year brings round a like occasion ! 
All this is true, sir. You cannot dispute it. It is 
history. And when I began in early life, to learn 
such transactions, I could not respect a religion, 
that would allow them. I disbelieved in such a 
religion. I became an infidel. The true history 
of England is enough to make a world full of in- 
fidels ! Ireland and India tell tales of blood about 
the religion of England. I can respect Mahom- 
etanism. It acts according to its principles. I 
can respect Popery and her Inquisition, for the 
same reason. But Protestant England, as she 
calls herself, I despise for her mean hypocrisy ! 
Her religion is described in three words, — pride, 
avarice, and oppression. All this became stamp- 
ed into my heart, as I was growing up towards 
manhood. I knew that the established church of 
England was nothing but a part of her govern- 
mental hypocrisy. I knew that her Protestantism 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 57 

was only a political pretence. I felt for my coun- 
try's wrongs ; and I rejected religion, because of 
the example that I studied so constantly. The 
example never appeared more base to me, than it 
does this moment. And I am troubled now be- 
cause my old system of thought will come back 
upon me, like a torrent, and tempt me to disbe- 
lieve in Christianity, as often as I think of the 
wrongs of my country." 

Said I, " In my opinion, you can easily get over 
all that difficulty. You have only to think of 
that which you know to be true, that is, that 
Christianity never sanctioned any of the pride, 
avarice and oppression you complain of; but that 
it was abusively made a cloak to cover such sins. 
In that nation it became linked with the govern- 
ment, — (which union I dislike as much as you 
do, — ) and because of that union it became cor- 
rupted. As you took the government and its ac- 
tions for an example of the influence of religion, 
or, for a test of its truth, you looked in the wrong 
direction. You should rather have looked at the 
pious in private life. You should have looked 
where there was some influence of Christianity, 
—not where there was none. You should have 
looked at the Bible Society, the Missionary So- 
ciety, the Sunday Schools and Orphan Asylums, 
and attempts to relieve the oppressed and down- 
trodden. There was religion in fact, not in mere 



58 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

name. And now, when you perceive that you 
erred, in taking what men falsely called religion, 
as an example of it, surely you need not be 
troubled with your old infidelity." 

" So it seems to me," said he. " But Satan 
tempts me, as if I was now embracing a religion 
which has crushed my country." 

" It never crushed your country. You kjiow it 
never did. It was a spirit directly the opposite 
of Christianity, which perpetrated the sins you 
complain of. Christianity would have saved your 
country. And you ought to welcome it to your 
heart, for your eternal salvation, more eagerly 
than you would ever have welcomed a deliverer to 
your native land." 

" So I do," said he. " So I will. I believe in 
Christianity. I know I need it. I believe Jesus 
Christ came to save sinners. I trust him to save 
me. I rely on the Holy Spirit to aid me against 
the temptations of Satan and the sinfulness of my 
own heart. You spoke of examples of religion in 
private life. Let me tell you, the example of my 
old aunt has been a demonstration to me. Satan 
cannot shake it." 

I again proposed to leave him for the present, 
and call at another time, lest so long a conversa- 
tion should injure him. 

" Another time /" said he, " another time ! 
You astonish me, sir ! I am a dying man ! I 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 59 

stand on the verge of time now ! I feel that the 
grave-digger is at the side of me ! You may talk 
of time. With your health and prospects, it is 
not unnatural. But if I should be talking of 
time, death would laugh at me, and call me fool 
and liar !" — And then, turning to me, and fixing 
his keen eyes upon my face, as he stood before 
me : — " Tell me what to do, to be ready to die." 

Said I, " You believe in Grod, the Infinite, Eter- 
nal Spirit." 

11 1 do" said he. 

" Then pray to him," said I. 

" I have, and I will" said he. 

" You believe you are a sinner ?" said I. 

" I know I am" said he. 

" Then repent, and trust in Christ for' pardon." 

" "Will repentance save me ?" 

" No," said I ; " Christ Jesus saves sinners 
You must not trust to your repentance and faith 
to save you. That would be self-righteousness 
Trust only in the crucified Son of Grod, your pro- 
posed surety." — (After a pause — ) 

" What must be done first, before I trust in 
him." 

" Nothing. Just nothing." 

" How ? Is there no preparation to make ?" 

" No ; none at all." 

w But, holiness — "said he. 

" Results from faith in Christ," said L 



60 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

" And the Holy Spirit—" said he. 

" Is your only hope," said I. " Without his 
aid you will neither repent nor believe. It is his 
office to take of the things of Christ, and show 
them unto us." 

" Will you pray with me ?" said he. 

We fell on our knees. I offered a short prayer, 
and left him. — I never saw him afterwards. 

I called to see him the next day, but his friends 
would not allow it, because he was so much ex- 
hausted. I understood from his nurse, that im- 
mediately after I left him the day before, he sent 
for his aunt, told her that he renounced all his 
infidelity, that he had not a doubt the Bible was 
from Grod, and that the atonement of Jesus Christ 
was all-sufficient for a dying sinner. He con- 
tinued his conversation and prayer with her, till 
he fainted ; and she was obliged to call for aid, to 
lift him from the floor, and lay him upon his bed. 

I made another attempt to see him, but his 
aunt sent word to me at the door, that she was 
very grateful for my attentions to him and thank- 
ed me much ; but she begged me not to come in, 
for he was not able to see me. He had not 
strength to utter a sentence. 

Just at this time, I left home, and on my return 
after an absence of three weeks, I learned that 
he was buried the week before my return. I 
could not find his aunt. I have never seen her, 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 61 

and know not the reason why she sent for me, 
only as I understood from the lady at whose house 
he died, that sho had at some time heard me 
preach. This same lady told me, that " the 
young man died in peace, with praises for the 
atonement of Jesus Christ on his lips." 



1 have never had my feelings more deeply in- 
terested, than they were in this young Irishman. 
He was a man of uncommon talents. He was 
frank and candid. He was full of enthusiasm. 
It is impossible to convey in writing any just idea 
of the ardor and eloquence with which he spoke, 
when he became excited. There was a sort of ro- 
mance, too, in the mystery in which his aunt so 
constantly shrouded herself. He was an avowed 
infidel. And what, in my opinion, is a very un- 
common thing, he was an honest infidel. The 
arguments, by which he attempted to sustain his 
infidelity, were peculiar. He was evidently in 
the last stages of life, the subject of a hasty con- 
sumption, of which nobody could be more sensible 
than himself. He was open to conviction. And 
it was very evident, that he entertained a most 
profound respect for his pious aunt, who had in- 
duced him to send for me. 



62 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

I thnk it likely, that that woman was the real 
means of his conversion and salvation. She was 
an example of practical piety, which his infidelity 
could not refute, and which his conscience could 
not but he nor. He evidently did not say to me all 
that he felt on that subject. "Whenever he alluded 
to her, after a few words, he would seem to check 
himself, and soon change the subject. But, occa- 
sionally, when he became excited, some expres- 
sion would come out, which showed how powerful 
her influence had been over him. I can never for- 
get the ardor and depth of emotion, with which 
he uttered the expression :— " You spoke of ex- 
amples of religion in private life. Let me tell 
you, the example of my old aunt has been a dem- 
onstration to me. Satan cannot shake it." 

It is true that infidelity cannot withstand the 
force of reason and argument ; but true godly ex- 
ample can come nearer the life-spot of religion. 
It knocks at the door of the heart. If the truths 
of Christianity were seconded by the devoted and 
pious lives of all her professed disciples, the unbe- 
lief of the world would soon cease. Private ex- 
ample of godliness is what the world most needs. 

All men will not think alike in reference to the 
mode in which this young Irishman was led into 
infidelity Perhaps he too much blamed the gov- 
ernment of England. Perhaps also, his feelings 
towards the people were governed by a very natu- 



THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 63 

ral prejudice. But it is much to be deplored, that 
the governments of nations professing to be Chris- 
tian, have been so unjust, so ready for war and 
conquest ; and that the Christian people of such 
nations have so often sunk their principles amid 
the waves of some exciting popularity, and have 
shouted over a victory in war, when they ought 
to have shed tears of bitterness over its injustice 
and cruelty. They little reflect how much their 
conformity to the world hinders the triumphs of 
religion. "War and conquest, too, may sometimes 
be inevitable perhaps. The general injustice of 
mankind may sometimes make deadly conflict 
necessary for the defence of the good against the 
wicked. But Christians and Christian nations 
have much to answer for, on account of such 
things as this young Irishman complained of. 
Too much of our religion is stained with the pride, 
and politics, and avarice of the world. " Come 
out of her, my people." 

I have some reason to believe, that no small 
blame was imputed to me, for remaining so long 
at a time, with a sick man, and hastening, (as 
they said,) his death, by my exhausting conversa- 
tion. But he never blamed me. I venture to af- 
firm his aunt never blamed me. They were quite 
as good judges of propriety, as those who were 
half-strangers to him in a boarding-house. More 
over, it would have been heartless to leave him, 



04 THE YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

and would have tended to make him call in ques- 
tion my sense of the importance and reality of 
the religion I urged upon him, when he used such 
language as I have here recorded. " No, sir ; you 
are not to leave me yet. Conversation does not 
hurt me ; and it would be no matter, you know, 
if it did. I am a dying man. I stand on the 
verge of time now. I feel that the grave-digger 
is at the side of me. — Another time ! sir ; an- 
other time ! You astonish me ! You may talk 
of time. But if I should be talking of time, 
death would laugh at me, and call me fool and 
liar. Earth has done with me. The grave lifts 
up her voice to claim me. I am preparing to say, 
yes, I come." — Some men perhaps might have left 
a man who talked thus. I could not. I am 
sure, if any wise man had been in my place, and 
known him as I did, he wculd'have done as I did 



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